


diminuendo

by edgehog



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Body mutilation, M/M, Yikes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-04-08 05:06:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14097885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edgehog/pseuds/edgehog
Summary: Burr regrets telling Hamilton to talk less.





	1. Chapter 1

He didn't know Hamilton was missing, until he found him.

Burr thought that the General would have raised the alarm, taken all the troops off the line to search for his right-hand man -- that he'd postpone the war if he had to, until Hamilton was safe by his side. But no. Hamilton is expendable, just like any soldier.

Burr wonders if that hurts him.

 

 

Burr almost missed Hamilton, too -- like ships in the night. He wonders what would've happened to Hamilton if he didn't decide to take a shortcut through the woods on his way back to New York, if he didn't notice that innocuous cabin beyond the tree line, if he didn't follow that gut instinct, _go_.

Burr isn't a goddamn fool -- he tethers his horse to a tree and circles around the house with his gun at the ready. The curtains are drawn, blocking the early morning light. That's curious, so he listens at the window. There are voices of two, maybe three men, talking of nothing in particular. It could be people trying to stay uninvolved in this war, but--

Something feels off.

He kicks in the door and holds up his rifle. He was right. Two men -- two Redcoats sit at a table. They startle and frantically search for their firearms but then go pale and freeze.

Burr follows their line of sight. Two rifles are on the table, next to the door. That confidence is why they're going to lose the war.

The British are easily subdued, surrendering with not a single bullet exchanged between them. They put up their hands and give up their name and rank without being asked. They're just kids. They don't want to risk their lives. When Burr gets closer he sees that they near are the same age as him. He hasn't looked at his reflection in a while, but he feels like he appears much older. He wonders why that is. Probably because they aren't invested in this fight. What do they have to fight for, really? It doesn't hurt them if America succeeds. When -- if this war is done, they'll go back home to the land they've always had.

They're scared. They're just kids. Burr smiles at them, friendly -- man to man. He wants to _help_ , he tells them, if they'll help him, and they're stupid enough and desperate enough to believe him.

"We have one of you," one of the kid soldiers say. "A prisoner."

Burr is usually right, unfortunately.

He thanks them for making his job easy. They breathe a sigh of relief -- that he isn't angry, that they are free of this burden. Burr tosses them a rope to tie one up, and then he ties up the other. He thinks they don't need to be restrained, but he doesn't trust them that much.

He opens the basement and he's hit with darkness -- he takes a candle down with him. The basement is short, only a few stairs deep, and he has to duck his head once his shoes hit dirt. It's wet and smells moldy and he feels dirty just breathing the same air.

After a few seconds he doesn't see anyone and he thinks the Redcoats have tricked him, but then he sees something move in the corner. He holds the light aloft and goes towards it -- his head brushes against the ceiling and dirt rains down on his neck, it feels like bugs -- and there, in the corner, is Hamilton.

Burr wonders why he doubts the Lord and His serendipity.

He crouches down to Hamilton's level. "It's me. Burr."

Hamilton looks mad. Mad that he was rescued by him? Embarrassed that he was captured? Burr does wonder how Hamilton got captured -- that isn't like him. And it isn't like him to be silent--

Burr holds the candle up to his face and Hamilton jerks away so quickly he falls back onto the dirt. Skittish. Eyes wide, panicked. Burr gets a good look at him -- he's filthy, clothes dirty, hair matted and tangled, dried blood on his chin and stained on his shirt. A lot of blood.

Burr's heart rate picks up. Hamilton looks whole -- Burr scans him over but he doesn't see any wounds, his nose isn't broken, and while his lip is busted, it wouldn't cause that much blood loss.

"What happened to you?" Burr asks. He gets closer, puts a hand on Hamilton's shoulder. Hamilton flinches, pulls back but there's nowhere to go, so he squares up and that fear is gone.

Hamilton looks like he's going to say something clever -- Burr prepares for it -- but he opens his mouth wide and there is nothing but teeth.

Burr is stunned into silence, as if his own tongue has been removed. He swallows, and is very aware how his tongue moves in his mouth. No wonder Hamilton had been quiet. The only way he could have ever been silenced was to be forced.

Burr hates the thought that crosses his mind: _he probably had it coming._

Hamilton mistakes Burr's disgust with himself for disgust with his mutilation. He closes his mouth and smiles, pleased that he's horrified him.

"Can you walk?"

Hamilton nods.

"Good," Burr says, and he leads the way out of the basement. If he goes too fast, Hamilton doesn't complain because, well. But Hamilton follows -- Burr looks behind him to see him crawling up the stairs. Burr pretends he doesn't notice. He lets Hamilton struggle climbing out.

He looks worse in normal lighting. Half dead. Burr supposes he is, with how much he valued his voice. He blinks, taking in his surroundings. It looks like he rather crawl back into that hole and die.

Burr turns to the bound Redcoats. "Who did this?" he asks, because he knows these kids did not. They can't even look at Hamilton.

"Our commander," says one. "He left four days ago. We were told to watch the American prisoner. We didn't -- we weren't here, when..."

Hamilton comes up beside him. His lips are pressed into a tight line.

"Are they telling the truth?" Burr asks. Hamilton nods. Then to the British, "Who is your commander?"

"Major Joseph Price." The other one speaks this time. He doesn't hesitate to betray his officer. Burr would have him shot, if he were under his command. "I'm sorry," he says and he's goddamn crying. "I'm sorry--"

Hamilton makes a sound in his throat, and then tries to spit at the Redcoats, but bloody saliva just runs down his chin.

Burr thinks of offering Hamilton his handkerchief, but it wouldn't make much difference to clean him.

 

  
They leave the two Redcoats tied after they let it slip someone was coming to take over for them that evening. Burr takes their food and a clean blanket and finds Hamilton's rifle. Outside, he gives it to Hamilton, but when he sees how Hamilton holds it, cradling it like a child, he takes it away from him.

Hamilton scowls. Burr imagines Hamilton would be saying a lot to him right now, if he could. But he can't, and he doesn't have any grounds to argue when Burr mounts his horse and helps Hamilton up to sit behind him.

Burr hopes Hamilton doesn't expect him to talk enough for both of them.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun rises into the middle of the sky, before it starts its descent back to the horizon. The journey would go much quicker if Hamilton were able to speak -- or perhaps, it would go much slower. Burr doesn't say anything because it would be as useless as talking to himself.

However, Hamilton's stomach speaks to him.

Burr comes to a halt when he finds a clearing secluded with trees. He doesn't ask Hamilton's opinion of it. He dismounts his horse. Hamilton swings his leg over and slides off, crumbles onto the ground, onto his hands and knees. He stays there for a moment. Burr fiddles with his pack. Hamilton is -- will be -- fine.

Hamilton stands, runs a hand through his hair to slick it away from his face. He looks wild, with his unkempt hair and ripped clothes and face bloody like he tore something apart with his mouth.

He doesn't even look like the same man Burr knew. Maybe he isn't -- he hasn't said anything different.

"Are you hungry?" Burr holds out a small loaf of bread, and a block of yellow cheese.

Hamilton glares at him.

"I know you're hungry. Did they feed you at all?"

Glares. And then Hamilton opens his mouth to show him, as though Burr could've forgotten.

Burr sighs. Hamilton cannot stop eating. Burr won't have Hamilton survive enemy torture just to have him starve to death on his way home.

"Let's start with water then."

Hamilton grabs the canteen from him, puts his mouth on it -- Burr grimaces -- and tilts it back. He drinks for a second but then his eyes widen and he gags and he starts to panic, choking wetly. Burr thumps him on the back and he spits out the water that had gone down wrong. It's bloody, dark red, old blood.

Then he vomits.

Burr moves their set up a few feet away. Hamilton has calmed, and takes small sips of water at a time. It takes a while, having to force the water to go down his throat without his tongue to aid in swallowing.

"Good," Burr says, encouraging. "Better."

Hamilton keeps glaring at him.

This is getting ridiculous, so Burr gets out his ink and quill and parchment. Hamilton sighs, like: _finally_. He spreads the paper on a rock and sets the inkwell on the ground, writes, _I can't believe I was rescued by you._

Burr almost writes in reply to him, like they're school kids passing notes in class -- but then realizes that's silly, he doesn't have to. "You could say thank you."

Hamilton gives him another one of those blank, withering glares.

 _Thank you, Aaron Burr,_ he writes, sloppy, slap-dash, and then on the next line: _Where is everyone else?_

"What do you mean?"

_Why are you alone? You aren't under General W's regiment, and there should be more people for a rescue mission._

"Because you weren't a rescue mission," Burr says. "I was on my way back from scouting. It was a coincidence that I found you."

Hamilton moves his lips. Writes: _supposed to be back 12 days ago, they almost killed me._ He points at paper when Burr doesn't respond.

"I guess they didn't look in the right place." And then because it's more truthful, he says, "Or maybe they thought you were dead, and didn't have the time to consider the alternative."

Hamilton's face falls. Aaron can see his heart being smashed. The poor thing thought he was something important.

_I am NOT dead._

"You aren't."

Hamilton doesn't look like he believes him.

"You need to eat, Alexander."

Hamilton shakes his head, bites on his lip. A cut on it reopens and bleeds.

 _I can't_. Pause. _He couldn't have just killed me, he intended me to starve to death._

Burr thinks of tying Hamilton's hands behind his back because he's already writing -- talking too much.

Hamilton sits cross-legged in the dirt and pouts while Burr starts a fire. Burr heats up the last of the porridge in his pack, adds water and the cream he took from the Redcoats and cooks it until it's a soupy concoction that Burr wouldn't even eat.

He hands a bowl to Hamilton. Hamilton peers over the edge and wrinkles his nose at the soggy oats floating in slightly creamy water.

"Eat it, or I will force feed you."

Hamilton narrows his eyes, frowns. Burr imagines that to mean: _fuck you._

Burr thinks that Hamilton is calling his bluff -- he can't decide if he doesn't care if Hamilton goes hungry or if he wants to strap him down and make him eat -- but then Hamilton takes the bowl from him and stares at it in defeat.

"Eat, Hamilton."

Hamilton huffs, spoons up a serving, puts it in his mouth, drags the spoon out of his mouth. It comes out empty.

If Burr has to make Hamilton eat out of spite, then so be it.

Hamilton holds the porridge soup in his mouth -- Burr can see his throat working to swallow but he's fighting it. Burr lays a hand on Hamilton's shoulder, tells him, "it's alright, Alexander. You're fine. You're doing good." Hamilton is trying. Burr strokes his neck, where his muscles are tense, coaxing him. Any other time Hamilton would've probably punched Burr in the face, but his eyes water and a tear runs down his cheek but he swallows.

"Good. Good."

 

Hamilton eats the entire bowl, slowly. He's like a child relearning to eat. He almost throws up once but Burr just shoves the spoon back in his mouth and has him push past it. Hamilton looks at him like he hates him. Burr is sure that he does.

After, Burr eats the rest of the food he pilfered from the Brits. It's rude to eat in front of Hamilton, but the man is going to have to get used to it. He tells Hamilton it isn't good -- the bread is stale and the cheese is hard -- but Hamilton isn't paying attention to him. He's too occupied with writing messages to Burr--

_has anything happened?_

"There's still a war, if that's what you're asking."

_anything significant?_

"Not really."

_you really didn't hear I was missing?_

"That's right."

_goddamn it Burr don't be taciturn when I need someone to talk to_

"I always was this reserved, but you never noticed because you never shut up. Maybe if you had a bit of reservation you you wouldn't have lost your--"

Too much. Burr swears and apologizes but Hamilton waves a hand at him. _It's okay._

He writes: _when I was captured I was quiet_

Burr reads Hamilton's words as they appear on paper. He finds it hard to believe that Hamilton was quiet -- voluntarily -- and Hamilton must catch his expression because he adds:

_sure I mouthed off but I got quiet quick when he started asking questions_

"Hamilton."

_but then he said since I had nothing to say I had no use for my tongue_

"Alexander."

_you always told me my mouth would get me into trouble_

Burr puts his hand over Hamilton's to stop him from writing more.

"We should go."

Hamilton's hand twitches like he wants to write more, but Burr takes the quill away from him.

Burr supposes he'll always have the last word with Hamilton, now.

 

  
It isn't much further to camp -- they'll be there in an hour's time at most.

Burr stops at a stream, gets off his horse. The horse eats grass as Hamilton attempts to get off. He doesn't fall to the ground this time. Eating did him well. Burr wonders how long Hamilton went without eating.

He doesn't ask.

Burr refills his canteen, turns to Hamilton and says, "You're going to wash off before we arrive."

Hamilton stomps his foot. _No_. He points in the direction of camp.

"Yes," Burr says. "You smell terrible." Like mold and piss and vomit and crusty blood and earth.

Hamilton's nostrils flare. He opens his mouth and he forms an argument on his lips but then he stops short. Closes his mouth, retreats to silence.

Burr is thankful he will be rid of Hamilton soon. "Don't you want to clean up before you report to Washington?"

And Hamilton shakes his head. He has a pained, yet determined expression -- he gesticulates in the direction of their camp, then at himself, all over.

"You belong with them?"

Hamilton shakes his head, repeats the motion. Burr stills doesn't understand. Hamilton is growing visibility frustrated -- he keeps waving his hands at himself, and...oh.

"You want them to see you like this?"

Hamilton smiles for the first time since Burr found him. _Yes_.

Burr can understand it -- to drag in, fresh from a fight. It's part of a soldier's badge of honor: see how much I suffered, but I survived.

"Sorry, but I'm not taking you back like this." Burr steps closer to Hamilton, and it's either Hamilton pushes him down to get by or Hamilton falls backwards into the stream. "Don't make me force you."

He realizes that isn't the right thing to say -- he expects Hamilton to punch him and then do the opposite he suggested. But that's the Hamilton he knew. This one relents and listens to him, because he can't do anything else, tired of fighting.

Burr regrets telling him to talk less.

Hamilton undresses. He swats Burr's hand away when he tries to help him take off his coat. Burr understands why when he removes his shirt -- he's covered in bruises, on his arms and back and stomach. He was beaten with something, and it looks like something was smashed on his shoulder. A boot stomping on him, maybe. Hamilton hadn't mentioned it, but he hasn't really get the chance to, either.

Hamilton strips down to nothing. He looks good, despite everything -- scrawny, but he has a muscular back and strong legs. Hamilton notices that he's looking at him. He gives Burr a look that Burr doesn't really know what he means.

Show off.

Hamilton cups his hands over his delicate bits -- both hands probably aren't needed, but that's Hamilton. He trudges into the stream until he's waist deep and then begins to rub at his skin, cleaning away the dirt and blood and whatever else. He bends down, washes his face and neck. He appears a lot less feral without the blood on him. He glances over to Burr. He grins.

With a splash, he sinks under the water and doesn't come up for one, two, three, four, five seconds. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Burr almost runs in after him -- but then he surfaces, slinging his wet hair like a dog. Some of it gets on Burr.

"Hey."

Hamilton glances over to him. His face says a lot, but Burr doesn't understand it.

Hamilton lays back, floats on his back, looks up at the sky. Burr sits on the ground, lets Hamilton have this time before -- before he has to face that this is real. 

Burr is anxious about that, too. He worries that he's wrong and this isn't Hamilton but only a ghost.


	3. Chapter 3

When they arrive in camp, Burr is ignored entirely in favor of Hamilton -- even Washington comes out of his tent to witness the return of the prodigal son. Hamilton dismounts from he horse and his friends circle around him, asking him questions that go muted.

Burr watches as he tends to his horse. He feels a sense of righteous justice that Hamilton is unable to speak while Burr isn't given the chance to speak.

He mimics Hamilton's silence. He waits as Washington asks more and more demanding questions and then begins to get angry when Hamilton doesn't say anything. Washington takes a step forward. Hamilton flinches -- the General is a large, intimidating man -- and then he bows his head in shame.

"What happened to you, son?" Washington asks.

Even though he kind of hates Hamilton, and he didn't want to become his caretaker, but he see things about to become out of control because of Hamilton's stubbornness, so he steps between Washington and Hamilton.

"I think we should meet privately," Burr says. "Sir."

Washington stares him like he's a disgusting piece of dog shit on his boot -- the man still feels contempt for him, apparently. Hamilton would be dead if it weren't for Burr -- he should have just left Hamilton to die in that hole. Maybe the British would have cut off other things if he didn't cooperate.

Hamilton huffs, pushes Burr aside. Jerks his head towards Washington's tent. Puts a hand on Burr's shoulder. _Stay_. Follows Washington to his quarters.

And Burr stays, because he's interested what will happen next.

 

 

He reads Hamilton's report. Hamilton's precise, methodical words make the event seem like it happened to someone other than him.

_Shot my horse out from under me...interrogated for two days...exhaustion...cut out tongue and a blade dipped in fire to cauterize..._

It ends with a one sentence description of his rescue: _Lt. Burr came upon my captors, overtook them, and I left with him without any further conflict._

"You could have elaborated on my heroism," Burr says.

Hamilton glares at him, takes his report back, and then makes a rude gesture.

Burr smiles to himself. Hamilton is in better spirits.

 

 

Mostly.

Burr has made a habit of checking in on Hamilton. Washington hasn't ordered him to leave -- Burr thinks he forgot he was there. It allows him to do as he wish.

He joins Hamilton during mealtime. Hamilton doesn't eat much, so Burr usually gets his leftovers too. They sit in Hamilton's tent while Hamilton scowls at his food and refuse to eat until Burr makes him.

Hamilton has figured out the best way to eat: with his fingers, sticking them in his mouth to put food at his molars and he chews chews chews until it can slide down his throat. Disgusting, but efficient. He has to stick to bread and soft cheeses and tender meat. Anything else is too much effort.

 _I can hardly taste it anyway_ , Hamilton writes him. _If I think about it too much it tastes like blood._

"Tastes fine to me," Burr says, taking a bite from Hamilton's bread. It actually tastes a bit like sawdust, but Hamilton doesn't know won't hurt him.

 

 

  
Hamilton petitions to keep his job. _I can still write_ , he says. Writes.

Washington does talk to Burr about this -- he asks if he thinks Hamilton is "all right" and if he would "be a problem."

Burr almost laughs. If Hamilton knew that his precious General would turn him out without remorse, that would damage him more than his mutilation.

"I believe Hamilton will be more proficient now that his ramblings have been...curtailed," Burr says. "And he'd rather die before he caused a problem."

Washington raises his brow. "You did not say if you thought he was all right."

"My opinion does not matter." Personally, Burr thinks Hamilton is okay in the ways that matter -- in the ways Washington means. He eats when he told. He rests when he's told. He stops working when he's asked.

Washington nods. "He seems to respond well to you. I would like you to consider to return under my command so you can work with Hamilton."

Burr considers making Washington beg, but he doesn't think Washington is the type to beg, and Burr is all too eager not die of something as stupid as heat exhaustion.

 

 

Hamilton is not happy that Burr has been appointed to him to help with his workload. He takes it as an insult -- that he isn't able to do it on his own. Burr tells him that he doesn't doubt his ability at all, but others will. Hamilton likes the idea better when Burr promises to verbally harass people for him.

Burr is not happy that he has to share Hamilton's tent. Hamilton stays up too late, and when Burr finally convinces him to lay down, he sets up to sleep right next to him.

Burr complains about that too. Hamilton kicks him in the shin. Hamilton is too tired to fetch paper and ink and it's too dark anyway to read it. So Burr takes that to mean _shut up._

Hamilton whimpers in his sleep. Soft, whining noises in his throat. It wakes Burr. He turns over, blinks as his eyes adjust to dark, sees the shape of Hamilton moving, writhing in the blankets. His hands go to his mouth, covering it. More throat noises.

He could wake Hamilton, save him from his nightmare. But no -- he must face it.

Burr sleeps.

 

 

Neither mention it in the morning. Hamilton, well, cannot -- and Burr doesn't want him to think that he cares enough to ask.

In the week that follows, Hamilton appears to be All Right. He's given a crisp, new uniform and he reports to duty and he writes as much as he did or more and he's no longer vomiting blood and his bruises and cuts are starting to heal. He looks fine.

Except when he opens his mouth.

It's unsettling to be around a quiet Hamilton -- it's an oxymoron, two things that don't go together. Quiet and Hamilton. Most people avoid him if possible, and go to Burr to give Hamilton messages or work to do.

Hamilton does find a way to communicate. He creates rudimentary gestures that begin to take meaning. Yes. No. I don't know. Eat. Hungry. America. Write. The General.

He's even made a gesture for Burr -- his fingers made into the shape of a lower case B and puts it to his arm like a burr sticking to his clothes.

"Cute," Burr says, dryly.

Hamilton grins. Write faster.

Hamilton is adapting. But it's all because he has to -- or is afraid to do otherwise.

 

 

But at night he dreams, and that is something he cannot hide -- when his mind is vulnerable.

Something hits Burr, waking him up, and he's reaching for his rifle, but he realizes it's just Hamilton in the middle of another nightmare -- his hands are flailing in front of him, as if trying to keep someone away. His fist hits Burr again.

They are sleeping too close.

But Burr moves closer. Puts his arm around Hamilton, holding his arms pinned to his body. Hamilton whimpers, lets out a choked sob. Other noises that sound like gagging but Burr realizes Hamilton is trying to talk. Hamilton struggles but gets weaker, and eventually gives up into sleep.

Burr is too damn tired to move away from him.

 

 

Hamilton wakes first -- Burr feels him slip from his hold. Burr sits up to see Hamilton putting on his uniform.

"Sorry," Burr says. "You were having a nightmare and you wouldn't calm down so I—"

Hamilton waves his hand. _It's fine_. He puts his hand to his chest, and then brings his fingers together like he's plucking something from his chest. _I liked it._ He puts his hands together and rests his hands on them like he's sleeping, and then smiles. _Sleep good._

Burr nods. He doesn't say: I liked it too.

 

 

Routine is good. They write and write and write by day, and a few hours each night they lie down together. They don't make an effort to make space between them because they both know that Burr will end up holding Hamilton to chase his nightmares away.

 _Why are you being nice to me?_ , Hamilton asks before they fall asleep.

"So I can sleep," Burr mumbles. "Hush."

But -- Burr likes it too, for some reason. Having someone as wily as Hamilton depend on him. Like a tamed animal. He did that.

Burr watches him sleep. He brushes back Hamilton's soft, dark hair. Hamilton really is handsome. It's a shame he's ruined.

Hamilton sleeps peacefully, and so does Burr.

And if Burr wakes up feeling Hamilton's morning wood pressing against him, he doesn't mention it.

 

 

They're working side by side, alone in their tent, when Hamilton receives a personal letter. He tears into it at their work table, reads it, and laughs -- something that sounds almost the same before his tongue was cut out.

"What?" asks Burr.

Hamilton opens his mouth, as though he wants to explain, but he hands Burr the letter instead.

Eliza Schuyler broke off their courtship. She says she loves him but can't love him like this, and other bullshit.

Burr tosses the letter to the desk. "She's not the best looking one anyway."

Hamilton shrugs, and then goes back to working on his assignment.

"I know what you're doing," Burr says.

Hamilton holds his open hand out with a scrunched expression in his face. _What?_

"You're overworking so you don't have time to think about what happened to you," Burr says. "You just were dumped by your fiancé and you don't care."

It's fine. Hamilton makes an L with his fingers and brings it towards him. _Laurens will be here._

"Why does that matter?"

Hamilton smiles. Points to Burr, then to his head. _You know why._

He does.

He doesn't know when he realized that Hamilton wanted to do things like kiss boys -- probably when Hamilton wasn't ashamed at his cock rubbing against Burr. Burr doesn't know when he wanted Hamilton in that way. Probably when he wasn't repulsed by Hamilton, and decided to stay.

Hamilton is smiling when Burr puts his mouth to his. He makes a satisfied noise in his throat, like he expected Burr to do this -- as though the allure was too much.

Burr doesn't know why Hamilton is smug. It's not a good kiss. He wonders if all men kiss this badly. Hamilton presses his mouth harder against Burr, and Burr pushes back. Burr wins as Hamilton goes pliant. Burr parts his lips and licks at Hamilton's. Hamilton makes a nice sound and he tastes good, so maybe it isn't so bad. Burr puts his hand at the back of Hamilton's head and pulls in him closer, wanting more. Hamilton opens his mouth and breathes against Burr, panting, and Burr slides in his tongue on instinct, and--

Burr pulls back.

 _You're disgusted_. Hamilton frowns. His mouth is wet.

"No," Burr says. "It was just -- different."

Hamilton makes a motion with his hands as though he's weighing something.

"Different?"

Hamilton nods. He does the motion again. _Different_ \-- he opens his mouth -- _because no tongue_ \-- he grabs his crotch -- _or because I'm a man?_

"Because it's you," Burr says, and he kisses Hamilton again, and Hamilton doesn't fight him this time. 


	4. Chapter 4

Things don't change much between him and Hamilton. They still share a workload and a tent and most times a meal -- only now there's kissing involved.

It's nice. It's something that doesn't require talking, and Burr likes it when Hamilton gets close to him and presses his closed mouth to his, slow and deliberate, sucks and bites at Burr's bottom lip until it's swollen. Burr almost forgets that Hamilton is lacking, but then Hamilton parts his lips and there's no tongue to slide against his, to lick him, to form whatever teasing words Hamilton would say.

It's an injustice, really.

Burr wonders why Hamilton does this with him. Maybe Hamilton needs to feel wanted and desired -- his fiancé broke it off with him because of his condition -- and he can't connect with people like he used to because they don't want to take the time to read his scribbled sentences or learn the hand signs he's created for communication. Maybe Hamilton is just horny and knows Burr is easy.

Or maybe Hamilton is using him to practice kissing for John Laurens, because apparently they've done that type of thing since they met.

Hamilton doesn't want to discuss it. He waves his hand -- _it doesn't matter_ \-- and then puts his mouth on Burr's to silence him.

Doesn't matter. Of course. Hamilton only mentioned that he anticipated his return and then he kissed Burr. It's just a coincidence. Not related at all.

But Burr doesn't care much about the why. He has a hot body pressed against his that wants to do things with him, and Hamilton's silence lets him imagine whatever he wants.

Hamilton enjoys it. Burr has felt his hardness against him when they've kissed, and poking against his ass in the morning before they've fully awake. "Put that thing away," Burr tells him, facing the wall of their tent. Hamilton just makes a chuckling noise and turns over and Burr thinks maybe he's going to sleep a bit more but the blanket rustles and there are wet sounds and--

"Are you jerking off?"

Hamilton lets out a soft moan in response.

If Burr didn't have a boner of his own -- which he did, because these days anything about Hamilton gets him going, from his sloppy flirting to how his breeches fit his thighs to his new complacency -- he definitely has one now. Throbbing hard.

He lays on his back and spits in his hand and grips himself and starts up a rhythm that matches Hamilton's -- it's a bit too fast for him but it's getting him what he wants. He stares at the canvas ceiling and listens to Hamilton's ragged breathing and the sound of skin on skin friction and too soon, Hamilton grunts and his body shakes and the smell of release is overwhelming.

Burr closes his eyes and imagines -- imagines Hamilton laying and quiet while Burr finishes off on him, rubbing his dick on his pretty body--

Burr comes so hard it surprises himself.

After, Hamilton seems more quiet than usual, somehow. Burr wishes he could tell him what he's thinking of, or what he wants--

Burr knows what he wants. He kicks off the blanket and crawls on top of Hamilton -- they're sweaty and sticky and too warm. Hamilton's eyes are wide and curious, but then they go clever and he grabs Burr's face and pulls him in. Burr's cheek is messy with Hamilton's come and as retribution, Burr wipes his messy hand on Hamilton's mouth.

It doesn't have the affect he thought -- Hamilton keens and rubs his face against Burr's hand. Burr thinks he'd lick it clean, if he could.

 

  
Hamilton gets frustrated easily. His tongue could hardly keep up with his mind, but that's gone -- and his hands can't write fast enough and he can't communicate with his hand signs -- so he forgets his thought half way through it. He's prone to his temper when someone doesn't understand, stomping his feet and flapping his hands and tossing his papers.

"Control him," Washington tells Burr in private. "He need a strong man to keep him in line."

"What about you, sir?" Burr asks.

Washington sighs -- Burr doesn't know if the topic exhausts him, or Burr himself. "I can't attend to Hamilton all time," he says. "Laurens usually occupies him when he gets...difficult."

Burr bites down on a laugh. He's sure Laurens _occupies_ Hamilton.

Burr bows his head. "I understand, sir."

Even if Washington doesn't really know what he's talking about.

 

 

 

 _Need more_ , Hamilton signs. That one is very clear. _MORE_.

"What do you want?" Burr asks. He kisses Hamilton's jaw. "Show me."

Hamilton's eyes flutter shut. His lips move like he's trying to speak. Instead he bites down and looks Burr straight in the eyes.

He touches his hands together, extends one out. _Anything_.  
  
That's a lot to ask for.

Okay then -- anything--

Burr pushes Hamilton onto the floor, strips him of his uniform and tosses it to the floor and then removes his own, taking his time to fold his -- Hamilton makes a noise of complaint at that. Burr tries to make him go slow by getting on top of him and holding his shoulders down, but Hamilton grinds his hips against his and he presses his nails into Burr's arms.

He had wrote Burr a note -- _the things I could've done to you_ \-- and Burr mourns it, honestly. Hamilton wrote him a message so filthy he burned it as soon as he read it -- something about spreading him and using his tongue to lick at him him like he would a woman.

But Burr has the advantage here, so to speak--

He runs his hands down Hamilton's front, scraping at his skin and leaving pink marks on his chest. _More_. Burr bites at his neck, and Hamilton whines broken from his chest.

 _More_.

Burr forces Hamilton to his knees, settled kneeling in front of Burr. Hamilton asks before he touches Burr, pointing to Burr's erect cock and raises his brows inquisitively -- _may I?_ \-- and puts his hands around Burr's cock. He hums, as though sizing him up and then leans in and opens his mouth over it. Burr isn't really sure what he's planning to do because he's lacking the best part of a blowjob, but he drools and it coats the head of his cock. Hamilton uses the slick to start a confident rhythm of stroking him off. It's nice but nothing spectacular. Hamilton must sense his disappointment and he dips his head down and takes him in his mouth. With the extra space, his cock fits easily. A hollow, wet place for his cock.

Burr pushes his hips forward and hits something solid near the back of Hamilton's mouth. Hamilton gags, and Burr feels lightheaded when he realizes what it is, the remains of Hamilton's tongue the British couldn't cut out because it was too far back.

Hamilton rubs a closed fist in a circle around his chest. _I'm sorry._ He wraps his hand around Burr's cock and begins to stroke him. With this free hand, asks, _Better?_

"Yes." Burr closes his eyes. Anything is good.

And after, Burr returns the favor. He's disinterested at first, but Hamilton's cock feels nice in his hand and Hamilton is so grateful --

Burr kisses Hamilton as he comes down from it -- Hamilton makes strangled noises in his throat and his eyes are glassy and he's weakly grabbing Burr's arm. Burr kisses his forehead and lies next to him, says, "I know."

 

 

 

  
One day Burr can't find Hamilton and he finds himself worrying -- his first instinct is to look for him hanging in a tree or dead in a ditch with a self-inflicted gunshot wound. He doesn't know why he thinks this -- Hamilton has been in good spirits, all things considered -- but that's how it usually happens, doesn't it? When it isn't expected.

But Hamilton is safe, in their tent, his nose a few inches away from a map.

"Something Washington gave you?" Burr sits next to him. "Battle plans?"

Hamilton shakes his head. He covers the map with his hand when Burr tries to see.

"Hamilton."

Hamilton sighs, and pulls paper towards him. He writes:

_A spy found this on a Redcoat along with a letter. It tells where Major Price will be a week from now._

"He's the one who -- who did this to you."

Hamilton goes back to studying the map.

"What do you plan to do?"

And Hamilton smiles.

 

 

 

  
John Laurens comes back in the middle of the night. Burr wakes missing Hamilton next to him -- he sits up and sees Hamilton sitting in the corner with Laurens talking over a candle. Or really, Laurens is talking and Hamilton is listening.

Laurens looks over -- Burr expects him to be angry but he looks...relieved.

Laurens stands and so does Hamilton and for a moment Laurens hesitates, but Hamilton grabs his hand and Laurens shakes him off.

"I'm sorry -- I just. I need to think --"

And he leaves.

Burr jumps up and goes after him -- he's been wanting to beat someone into the ground -- but Hamilton holds him back.

"He can't," Burr says. "He wasn't here -- there's nothing wrong with you--"

Hamilton puts his hand over Burr's mouth.

 _Don't_. He has that horrible expression that pains Burr -- and he forces Burr to look at him. To listen, as he can. Burr sees the words that form on Hamilton's lips but wither and die before they are born.

"It's okay."

Hamilton sniffles -- his cheeks are wet, Burr had been ignoring the tears -- and is mouth contorts and his chin goes tense and makes a singular sound--

"B--"

Burr hugs him and doesn't let go.


End file.
